


The Detective's Daughter

by orphan_account



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, fem!Kuroko - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4192497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There were two people in the lab that day. One was a tall, lanky man with dark curls, and the other was a young girl with impossibly blue eyes and hair to match.” </p>
<p>When John Watson is invalidated from Afghanistan, the last thing he expects is to become involved in the life of the world’s only consulting detective and his mysterious young ward. But, of course, as the art of storytelling dictates, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game is On

There were two people in the otherwise empty St. Bartholomew’s lab as the pudgy, balding Mike Stamford showed John Watson into the sterilized room. One was a tall, lanky man with pale skin and curly dark brown hair, hunched over an experiment of some sort. The other seemed to be a young girl—maybe in secondary school—with short, straight, light blue hair (probably dyed, John thought) and, as he discovered when she looked up from the text books she’d been studying from upon his and Mike’s entrance, wide, innocent eyes of the same shade (must be coloured contacts). “Bit different from my day,” the ex-Army doctor mused as he hobbled in on his cane, unsure if he meant the lab or its inhabitants.

Without removing his eyes from the experiment, the lanky man said, “Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine doesn’t have a signal.” His voice was deep, rich—John was sure that voice haunted the dreams of men and women alike. 

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked, sounding rather like a fond parent to a child innocently asking for a unicorn.  
“I prefer to text,” replied the man flatly.

“Well,” said Mike apologetically, “I left it in my coat.”

Before he even realized he was doing it, John reached into his jumper pocket and pulled his phone out of its depths, offering it to this dark haired stranger. “Here, use mine.”

The man looked up then, and John almost felt himself flinching from his eyes. They were an odd colour, an almost silvery colour, but without the silver hue. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the proffered device and quickly pecking out a text message. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
John blinked. “What?”

But the man didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed the phone back into John’s outstretched hand and said, “How do you feel about the violin?”

“What?” John repeated.

“I play the violin when I think. Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, after all.” 

To say John was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed would be an understatement. “Wait, who said anything about flatmates?”

“I just did. Weren’t you listening?” He reached for his black coat, which had been draped across a stool behind him, and began to put it on as he continued. “I told Mike earlier that I must be a hard man to find a flatmate for. I got a deal on a nice place in central London; we should be able to afford it together. We’ll meet there tomorrow at seven in the evening. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I left my riding crop in the mortuary. Come, Tetsuna.” The girl with the light blue hair, who John had quite forgotten was there, was by the man’s side in a flash. “Good day, gentlemen.”

John caught the man’s wrist, and tried to ignore the rush of electricity that was suddenly coursing through his veins. “Wait!” he demanded, feeling pride swell in his chest when the taller man complied to his order. “That’s it, then? We’ve just met and we’re getting a flat together?”

“Is there a problem?” the man asked.

“We don’t know a thing about each other!”

A sly look entered the man’s eye. “I know you’re an army doctor recently invalidated from overseas.I know you have a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him, possibly because he’s just walked out on his wife, but more likely because of his drinking habits. I know your therapist thinks you limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid.” He smirked at the astonished look on John’s face. “I think that’s enough to go on, don’t you? The name’s Sherlock Holmes, this,” he gestured to the girl, “is Tetsuna Kuroko, and the address is Two Two One Bee Baker Street.” With a wink and a click of his tongue, Sherlock Holmes swept out of the lab, Tetsuna following closely behind.

When John turned his gobsmacked self to face Mike, the fat man started guwaffing. “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

 

When John returned to the halfway house that night, he typed up a quick blog entry (signed, Happy now, Ella?) and opened Google. A search on Tetsuna Kuroko led to several sports sites, which rather surprised him. He found that Tetsuna used to be a part of a group of Japanese basketball players called the Generation of Miracles for their prodigious skills on the court. According to a recent article, each member apart from Tetsuna was leading a successful careers back in Japan: Seijuuro Akashi was the CEO of his family’s company, Atsushi Murasakibara owned his own bakery, Daiki Aomine was a police officer, Ryouta Kise was an airplane pilot, and Shintarou Midorima was a surgeon. Another site stated that Tetsuna Kuroko, known as the Phantom Sixth Man, was studying early childhood development at Kingston University.

After recovering from the shock of such a tiny girl being a uni student, John went back to the browser and typed ‘Sherlock Holmes’ into the search bar.

The first page he found was a website called ‘The Science of Deduction. The site regaled Sherlock’s abilities of deduction, claiming he could identify a surgeon by his left thumb and an airplane pilot by his tie. 

John found the boasts quite ridiculous. No one was that smart, right?

But then again, isn’t that exactly what he’d done that afternoon?

John slammed his laptop shut and hobbled to his bed, still unsure if he would be going to Baker Street.

 

John’s watch read 6:45 when he found himself standing outside 221B Baker Street. Surprisingly, Tetsuna was leaning against the window of the neighboring sandwich shop, holding the leash of what appeared to be a husky puppy. “Hello, Dr. Watson,” she said, a slight accent evident in her voice as she bowed, keeping her hands in the pockets of her light blue hoodie. “Sherlock will be here precisely at seven, so we have a bit to wait.”

“Ah, yes.” John kneeled in front of the furry dog whose eyes,he noticed, were that same shade of blue as his mistress’s. “And who’s this?”

A small smile broke lit her face as she, too, crouched. “This is Nigou.”

“Nigou?”

“It means ‘number two’ in Japanese, One of my old teammates named him that after I found him because we have the same eyes.”

John stood, brushing soot of the knees of his trousers. “Ah, yes. You played basketball in school, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, and a serene, peaceful expression crossed her face as she continued scratching Nigou behind the ears. “I love basketball.”

It took John a moment to recover from how, well, adorable she looked. “But, uh, wasn’t it hard, being the only girl in a man’s sport?”

She shrugged, standing. “There wasn’t any rule forbidding me from playing, and neither of my coaches cared. I just changed after everyone else, though Aomine would sometimes sneak in to snap my bra.” A scowl marred her features as John chuckled. “It wasn’t funny. I still tense up every time he walks behind me. Other than that, though, my teammates and opponents respected me as a player, not a girl.” She reached into the pocket of her white shorts (just how she was wearing shorts in a London January, John didn’t know) and pulled a light blue phone out of it. She flipped it open, hit a few buttons, and turned the screen to John. “This was my middle school team—the Generation of Miracles.”

The picture showed seven people—five boys and two girls. One of the girls was, obviously, Tetsuna. Her hair was longer, and it was pulled up out of her face in a high ponytail. She was looking at the camera, face bland but eyes sparking. The girl next to her was the only one not wearing a light blue and white basketball jersey. She had long, pastel pink hair, loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were closed, mouth smiling as she threw her arms around Tetsuna’s shoulders. On Tetsuna’s other side was a tall boy with tanned skin and dark blue hair. He was holding up a peace sign with one hand and grinning so wide John was sure it actually pained him. Behind him was a blond boy with a single silver earring, appearing to be in mid-laugh and reaching for Tetsuna as well. Beside him was an absurdly tall boy with long-ish purple hair, sporting a bored expression and eating from a bag of crisps. Then there was a short-ish boy with red hair and eyes, smiling triumphantly and crossing his arms. The last figure was a boy with green hair who was in the process of pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the resulting glare shielding his eyes from the camera.

“Very...colorful,” John supplied, wondering just how common dyeing one’s hair was in Japan.

A soft giggle escaped Tetsuna’s lips as if she’d read John’s mind. “Yes, I suppose so. those are our natural colors by the way. Hair and eyes.”

John’s eyes nearly popped out of his head in shock. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” she affirmed with a nod of her head.

As John processed this new information, one of London’s black cabs rolled up to the curb.One Sherlock Holmes stepped out of it, looking as meticulous as it was possible to be when one was holding a giant box. “Afternoon,” he called, striding to John, Tetsuna, and Nigou on those long legs of his.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes,” John returned, offering Sherlock a hand to shake.

“Sherlock, please,” the taller man said, accepting the proffered appendage. “Tetsuna, can you help me with this cake? It’s for you, anyway.”

The uni student eagerly took the box John was sure was as big as her and smiled. Sherlock was then free to move to the door marked 221B in proud brass characters and knock on the wood. “You said you got a deal on this place,” John said cautiously.

“The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, owes me a favour. A few years ago her husband was sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help.”

“You stopped his execution?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock said, a wicked glint entering his colourless eyes. “I ensured it.”

Before John could think of an appropriate response, the door swung open to reveal an older, purple-clad woman with (actually dyed, John was later assured) red hair and a grandmotherly face. “Oh, Sherlock,” she cooed, wrapping her arms around the tall man. She then turned her attention to Tetsuna and, since she couldn’t hug her, settled for pinching the student’s cheeks. “And Tetsuna, look at you. You just keep getting lovelier every day!”

“Ith goo tho sthee you thoo, Mithus Hudthon,” Tetsuna replied.

“Please, Mrs. Hudson, don’t embarrass the girl.” Sherlock put his hand on Tetsuna’s shoulder, indicating that she should run the cake box upstairs. Nigou eagerly followed his mistress, woofing in a puppy-like way as he went. “Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is the landlady, Mrs. Hudson.”

John stepped forward to shake the woman’s hand. Mrs. Hudson’s grip was very impressive for such an elderly person, leaving his hand a little sore afterwards. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson!”

“Call me John, please,” John said offhandedly. He was showed up seventeen stairs to another wooden door, which was wide open, showing a portion of the flat. Various papers and manilla folders were scattered about on a persian rug on the floor, and Nigou was lying quietly in a leather armchair, head pointed to where John presumed Tetsuna was. A lone basketball rested by a bookshelf, its bright orange color a stark contrast to the neutral tones of the rest of the room.

As John stepped into the flat, he was able to spot Tetsuna once more. She was in the kitchen, opening the box Sherlock had given her. “Would you like some cake, Dr. Watson?” she asked in that quiet voice of hers. “My friend got a bit carried away making it and there is no way Sherlock and I will be able to eat it all.”

“Ah, sure. What kind is it?”

“Vanilla, probably. He knows it’s my favorite.” She turned her head and gestured toward the leather sofa with her hand. “Please, take a seat. Your leg must be bothering you.”

John did as she bid while Mrs. Hudson tittered about, scolding Sherlock for the mess he’d made. “I hope you don’t mind,” the tall man said as he moved Nigou from the armchair so he himself could sit in it, “that I’ve already taken the liberty of moving in.”

Mrs. Hudson perched herself on an arm of the couch and sighed happily. “It’s oh so very nice to see—a slice for me too, Tetsuna, if you please—it’s so nice to see Sherlock getting out there. It’s a bit sudden, of course, but as long as Tetsuna’s okay with it—”

John abruptly started coughing, alarming the elderly landlady. “It’s—we’re not—he’s not my boyfriend!”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, dear. There’s all sorts around here—Mrs. Turner’s got married ones!” She looked absolutely delighted as Tetsuna emerged from the kitchen, carrying four plates of a delectable looking cake.

As they settled into their seats and began to eat, Sherlock got down to business. “Now, the flat has two bedrooms, but Tetsuna needs her own, leaving us with one. I am comfortable sleeping on the couch for the time-being, so you can have the second bedroom, if that is alright with you.”

“That’s fine,” said John.

Sherlock looked like he was about to say more when Mrs. Hudson reached for a newspaper sitting on the coffee table and flipped it open. “What about these suicides, Sherlock? I figured they’d be right up your alley.”

“Yes,” Tetsuna agreed, a sly look in her eyes. “Three suicides, all the same cause of death? A bit odd if you ask me.”

“Actually,” said Sherlock, bounding out of the armchair and to one of the large windows covering the wall facing the street, “there’s been a fourth.”

A set of pounding footsteps climbed the stairs, and in the doorway of the flat was an older man with caramel skin and startlingly white teeth. “There’s another one,” he said without preamble, stepping into the flat with an air of desperation.

“Yes, but what’s different? You wouldn’t come to me unless something was different,” Sherlock said superiorly.

The man sighed. “This one left a note.”

“A note?”

“Yes, a note! Will you come or not?”

“Who’s on forensics.”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock hissed. He actually hissed, like a cat. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

The new man seemed exasperated. “Well, he won’t be your assistant!”

“I need an assistant!”

“Sherlock, please.”

After a tense moment, Sherlock relented. “I’ll follow in a cab.” The man rattled off an address and went back down the stairs.

As soon as the footsteps died away, Sherlock jumped for joy. He literally jumped, tucking his feet up and letting out a whoop of excitement. “Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas!” He patted Tetsuna on the head and strode for the coat rack. “Wrap my piece in plastic wrap, Tetsuna; I’ll finish it later. Make yourself at home, John!”

Once he’d disappeared into what John assumed what the downstairs bedroom, Mrs. Hudson huffed and left the room while Tetsuna shot him an apologetic look. “I am sorry, Dr. Watson. Sherlock tends to get over excited by things like this.”

“Oh, it’s fine. You forget I was in the army.”

Tetsuna smiled and took the plates back to the kitchen. John heard the clinking of plates and the running of water, and, thus, was rather surprised by Sherlock’s deep voice behind him. “You were an army doctor.”

“Yes,” John replied, standing up shakily.

“Any good?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”

“Yes, I suppose. More than a lifetime’s worth.”

A feral grin broke Sherlock’s face. “Want to see some more?”

And, without hesitation, John said, “Oh, God, yes.”

John leapt out of the chair and followed Sherlock as he trotted down the stairs, a spring in his step. Tetsuna poked her head through the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. “You’re both going?”

“We’ll be back before long,” Sherlock assured. “There’ll be time enough to get to dinner.”

Mrs. Hudson came out of her own flat to throw in her two cents. “It’s not proper to get so excited over these things, Sherlock.”

“Proper? I don’t care about things like propriety when something exciting is finally happening!” Sherlock kissed the older woman’s cheeks and led John to the door with a hand on his back. “The game is on!”


	2. Jennifer Wilson

The cab ride was a bit awkward, to say the least. Once the initial adrenaline wore off, the silence was thick. After a moment, Sherlock tilted his head in John’s direction. “You have questions,” he said without inquiry.

“Yeah, loads. Where are we going?”

“Crime scene. Next.”

“Why?”

“Because the police are useless.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

That seemed to ignite the spark. “You asked how I knew about you, yes? Would you like me to explain?” At John’s nod, he continued, “Your haircut and the way you carry yourself suggest military. When you and Mike entered the lab, you said, ‘A bit different from my day,’ suggesting you studied there, meaning you have medical training. Army doctor, then. Your hands and face are tan, but the tan stops above the wrist. You don’t get that sunbathing on vacation. Your limp is bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, suggesting that your limp is at least partly psychosomatic, so the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, so injured in battle. Army doctor, tan, injured in battle, Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“You said I have a therapist,” John said, lightheaded.

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of course you’ve got a therapist. Now, onto your brother… Hand me your mobile, would you?”

John did as the detective bid, pulling the mobile from his trousers’ pocket and handing it to him. “This is an expensive phone—GPS, web browser, MP3 enabled. A man looking for a flatshare wouldn’t waste his money on a phone like this. Also, it’s covered in scratches, as if it’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A money-conscious man such as yourself would never treat his only luxury item like that. It’s had a previous owner, then. The next part is easy: the engraving. “To Harry, From Clara,” followed by three x’s. Harry Watson is obviously a male family member who’s given you his old phone, an action indicating that he wants you to keep in touch. Now, who’s Clara? Three x’s usually indicates a romantic relationship. She could be a girlfriend, but the price of the mobile says ‘wife.’ This model is only six months old. Six months and he’s already giving it away? If she’d left him, he would’ve kept it. People do—sentiment, you know. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her.”

“But how could you possibly know about the drinking?”

“The area around the power connector is scratched. His hands are shaking every night when he plugs his mobile in. Even in the dark, he would’ve eventually figured out an easy way to plug it in if he were sober. You never see these marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them. You were right, by the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“About what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

“That was amazing.” John breathed after a moment of processing.

Sherlock gave him a startled look. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s brilliant!”

Feeling quite pleased, Sherlock straightened his spine. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“Then what do they usually say?”

“‘Piss off.’”

And then they dissolved into giggles like schoolboys.

It actually took John a moment to recover enough to ask a question that had been on his mind since the previous afternoon. “Are you and Tetsuna…?”

“You can consider me her guardian,” Sherlock responded, sounding a tad breathless. “Our relationship is, and will always be, purely platonic. However, I would discourage pursuing a romantic relationship with her.” A hard look locked into place in those colorless eyes of his, all traces of his earlier playfulness eradicated. “She’s too young for you, and I know of several young men her age who are already chasing after her.”

John’s face colored, but before he could assure the now (angry? Brooding? Seething?) detective that he had no untoward intentions towards the small uni student, the cab rolled to a stop and Sherlock said, “We’re here.”

* * *

John felt unwelcome as soon as he met Sergeant Sally Donovan.

Donovan, a handsome, dark-skinned woman in a neatly tailored suit, had confronted Sherlock and himself at the yellow caution tape, a scowl of disapproval marring her face. “What’re you doing here, Freak?” she demanded, glaring at Sherlock.

The detective looked much less intimidated than John felt at the moment. “Detective Lestrade asked me to come.”

“Why’s that?”

And Sherlock, the cocky bastard, started smiling and said in a sugary-sweet tone of voice, “Funnily enough, I think he wants me to take a look.” As he spoke, he raised the caution tape so he could duck under it.

“Well, y’know what I think?” the woman spat.

“Always, Sally,” said Sherlock in a patronizing tone, and John was sure he used her first name to agitate her further. “I even know that you didn’t make it home last night.”

Were the situation less grave and this woman less intimidating, John would’ve laughed at the shocked expression on Donovan’s face. As if she sensed this, she rounded on him. “Who’s this?” she demanded of Sherlock.

“This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan.”

“A colleague?” Donovan scoffed, looking between the men before her eyes finally settled back on Sherlock. “How did you get a colleague?” Then she turned to John with an almost sympathetic look. “Did he follow you home?”

“Maybe I should leave—” John started, feeling extremely uncomfortable with this oddly hostile woman.

Sherlock turned his head and raised the caution tape he was still holding even higher with a loud, petulant “Nope!”

Donovan sighed and drew a walkie-talkie from the pocket of her beige coat.”The Freak’s here, and he brought a friend. I sending them up.”

It was a short walk to the building, but Sherlock found the time to say, “Did I get anything wrong, by the way? With my deduction, I mean. I like to check when I can.”

Feeling amusement bubble up inside him, John said, “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

Before Sherlock could begin to rant on how stupid he was for missing the obvious signs that Harry was John’s sister, a man with birdlike features and greasy, slicked back hair in a blue hazard suit approached them, scowling. As soon as his eyes landed on Sherlock, his arms crossed. “This is a crime scene, Freak. I don’t want it contaminated.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock said, “Hello, Anderson. How long is her wife out of town?”

“Don’t act like you just figured that out!” Anderson nearly roared, throwing his arms to his sides. “Someone told you that!”

A smirk worked its way onto Sherlock’s face as Donovan also approached the building. “Yes, your deodorant did. It’s for men.”

“Of course it is! I’m wearing it!”

“So is Sergeant Donovan.” When the people in question froze, he let his smirk grow wider. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure she just came over for a chat and ended up staying the night. And it looks like she scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees.” With a flap of his coat, Sherlock swept inside, and John couldn’t resist a quick look down at the sergeant’s knees as he followed.

Lestrade was waiting for them (well, Sherlock, in all honesty) inside, wearing a blue hazard suit like Anderson’s and holding another in his hands. His eyes nearly bugged out when he saw John. “Who’s this?”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock supplied, already moving toward the staircase.

Lestrade caught one of Sherlock’s thin arms. “Who is this, Sherlock? I’m breaking enough rules letting you in here!”

“Because you need me.”

“God help me, I do.”

“He’s with me, Lestrade.”

Lestrade seemed conflicted for a moment before a tense breath left his lips. “Fine,” he said tersely. “You have five minutes with the body. That’s it, Sherlock. I mean it.”

A cocky smirk slid onto the taller man’s face as John stepped into the proffered hazard suit. “I’ll need less.”

* * *

Sherlock was right; he’d only needed two minutes and twenty-seven seconds along with the body that used to be a pretty woman named Jennifer to find a number of things.

He could tell where she was from from the state of her coat. He saw her troubled marriage in the jewelry she wore. He knew that she’d only planned to stay in London for one night (probably with one of her several lovers) because of the splash marks on her left leg.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed, unaware he was doing it aloud until Lestrade and Sherlock were both staring at him. “Er, sorry. I’ll stop.”

“No,” Sherlock said, a trickled of amusement in his voice, “its fine. Anyway,” he continued, looking to Lestrade, “I’ll need the case for further inspection.”

“What bloody case?” Lestrade demanded, aggravated.

“Her overnight one, obviously. What have you done with it?”

“Sherlock, there was no case here.”

The tall man froze before an excited light entered his eyes. “Oooh,” he breathed. Turning to Lestrade, he said, “Look for the case. The killer probably has it,” before he sprinted down the stairs with those damned long legs of his. His voice carried up through the stairwell. “I love serial killers. There’s always something to look forward to. We just need to wait for him to make a mistake.”

Lestrade leaned over the railing, irritated. “We don’t have time to wait for him to make a mistake!” he shouted.

“He’s already made one! Look for Rachel!” the detective yelled back, referring to the RACHE that was scrated into the wooden floor by Jennifer’s head.

“What mistake?” Lestrade demanded.

“PINK!”

And then Sherlock was gone.

It took John fifteen minutes to get out of the hazard suit and trudge back down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

Quite unfortunately, the first person he ran into was Sally Donovan. “Um, is Sherlock—”

“He’s gone,” the woman replied. “Took off. He does that a lot.”

John felt his stomach drop. “Ah, yes. Um, where is this?”

A pitying light entered her dark eyes. “We’re in Brixton. You could probably catch a cab out on the main road.” She lifted the caution tape up to allow John to leave the crime scene, but before he could walk away, she continued speaking. “You’re not his friend, you know. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends. Do you know why he does this? He doesn’t get paid or anything. He likes it—gets off on it. He’s a psychopath. And you know what? Psychopaths get bored. One of these days, being here isn’t going to be enough. One of these days, we’ll all be standing over a body, and it’ll be Sherlock Holmes who put it there. So stay away from him.” With that, as if she’d done him enough good deeds, she strode towards a police cruiser.

* * *

When Sherlock returned to 221B, Tetsuna was lying on the couch, Nigou snoozing away on her stomach. With the hand that wasn’t petting the dog, she was reading a Japanese novel, giggling slightly whenever she came across an amusing part.

Sherlock threw Jennifer Wilson’s pink case behind the couch, sat in his chair, and sent a text.

* * *

John had been kidnapped several times during his time in the army, but none of those instances had been remotely close to this one.

After his unsettling encounter with the tubby man with an umbrella, John made not-Anthea stop by the halfway house to retrieve the loaded gun he kept in his drawer. The mere presence of the firearm was illegal, and the reason he kept it loaded was even more grim, but none of that was important now.

When he returned to 221B, his gun tucked in his waistband and two texts from Sherlock (“Come to Baker Street at once, if convenient-SH” and “If inconvenient, come anyway-SH”), , the door was (still) open. Tetsuna and Nigou were asleep on the couch, a discarded novel laying open and spine-up and the rug beside them. Sherlock was resting in an armchair, his right hand pressed on the crook of his left elbow, eyes closed.

John edged into the flat carefully, shutting the door behind him. “Uh… what’re you doing?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he removed his hand to reveal three large, beige-coloured patches on the skin. “Nicotine patches. It’s impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London these days.”

John’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Why do you have three of them?”

“It’s a three patch problem.”

John decided to leave it at that and said, “I met a friend of yours.”

“A friend?” Sherlock demanded, sounding scandalized.

“An enemy,” John amended, moving to look out the window.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, much calmer. “Which one?”

“Your arch one. Do people actually have arch enemies in real life?”

“I do,” Sherlock replied. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John froze, wondering how on earth Sherlock had know that. “Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No…”

“Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

Before John could think of a suitable response, a yawn alerted him that Tetsuna was waking up. Her eyelids fluttered open and she rubbed at them sleepily as she sat up, disrupting Nigou from his own slumber and sending him tumbling to the floor. “Welcome home, Dr. Watson.”

Watching her be so adorable made John feel guilty. I haven’t even decided if I’m going to move in yet, he thought. Instead of voicing this, he gave her a polite nod and turned back to Sherlock. “Who was he?”

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet and not my problem right now.” The detective then heaved himself out of his armchair. “Anyway, I need you to send a text.”

John stared at Sherlock blankly, sure he’d misheard. “You dragged me across London to send a text message?”

“Oh, there was no hurry.”

“I was on the other side of London!”

“Yes, I gathered that from your previous statement. Anyway, the number is on the table over there.”

John resisted the urge to rip Sherlock’s head from his skinny neck and hobbled to the desk, drawing his mobile from his pocket.

“Good,” Sherlock encouraged. “Now, once you’ve entered the number, send this exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.’”

John felt worry pulse through him. “Wait, you passed out? Are you okay?”

“Sherlock sent him a cross look. “I didn’t pass out. Are you finished?”

“What’s the address?”

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street! Hurry up!”

“Alright, alright!” John pushed the send button with a little more force than neccessary. When he turned back around, Tetsuna and Nigou had disappeared and Sherlock was back in his chair, staring intently at a bright pink suitcase. “That..that’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case!”

John bit back a laugh at the irritated expression on the taller man’s face. “Do people usually assume you’re the killer?”

“Sometimes.”

“How did you find it, anyway?” John questioned, sinking down on the chair opposite him.

“I simply looked everywhere within a ten minute travel radius of the crime scene where disposing of a case would be easy. Now,” Sherlock said, flipping the case open, “what’s missing?”

When John didn’t answer after a three-second pause, Sherlock sighed. “Her phone. Where’s her mobile phone? I wasn’t on her body, and it’s not in her case.”

“Maybe she left it at home,” John offered.

Sherlock made a scoffing sound. “She had a string of lovers and she was careful about it; she never left her phone at home.”

His condescending voice was really starting to get on John’s nerves. “Well, where it it, then?”

An almost bloodthirsty smile cracked Sherlock’s face. “The question is, who has it?”

John phone began ringing.

“Did—did I just text a serial killer?”

“Hours after his last kill, and he gets a message that can only be from her?” Sherlock said, eyes sparkling with excitement. “If any old person just found the phone on the street, they’d ignore a message like that. But the killer...would panic.” He stood abruptly, slammed the suitcase closed, and gave John a more normal smile. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry. Tetsuna and I are going out to dinner with some of her friends. It’s a nice little Italian place; I know the owner. You simply must come with us!”

John felt a bit startled by Sherlock’s sudden mood swing. “Ah, I can just get some carry out. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense. I insist you come. I’m sure Tetsuna would love to introduce you to her friends, and I’m afraid Nigou’s developed a taste for Chinese food—you’d never finish your dinner.”

As if summoned by his name, Nigou zoomed down the stairs, baby blue eyes wide and twinkling as he sat on his rump snugly by Sherlock’s right foot. Tetsuna appeared not a moment later, looking considerably more well dressed than she had upon waking up, wearing a teal dress that reached to her knees with a white sweater over it. “Is Dr. Watson coming to dinner with us, Sherlock?” she asked in that soft voice of hers, cocking her head slightly.

Sherlock smirked at send John a pointed look. Flustered by the amused glint in the detective’s eyes, he stuttered, “Ah, yes, of course.”

Tetsuna finished her descent, allowed Sherlock to help her into her coat, and then the three were off, managing to shut the door behind them.

 


	3. Dinner at Angelo's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long it took to get this chapter posted!

They had to walk to the restaurant, and John was almost ready to saw his aching leg off by the time they reached their destination. They were met at the door by a blushing boy whose nametag dubbed him Billy who didn’t take his eyes off Tetsuna as he led them to a table by the window that was obviously a booth with a four-seater pushed against it. John and Sherlock settled into the cushioned booth while Tetsuna sat in a chair facing the door.

Before long, a fat, dark-skinned man with long black hair waddled over to the table and threw his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “This man got me off a murder charge!” he informed John proudly. Tetsuna sighed good-naturedly, as if she’d heard the story dozens of times before.

On the man’s prompting, Sherlock said, “A few years ago, I proved that at the time of a particularly gruesome triple murder, Angelo was at the other end of town, house-breaking.”

“This man cleared my name!” Angelo said, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder tightly.

“I cleared it a bit,” the detective returned, and John could detect a slight blush on his pale cheeks.

“If not for him, I would have gone to jail!”

“You did go to jail.”

Angelo laughed jovially, like Sherlock had just made a joke. “You know the drill, Sherlock. Anything you want, on the house, for you, Tetsuna, and your date.”

The easy smile John had been wearing since their arrival was instantly wiped away as his face turned red. “We’re not—I’m not his date!” he protested heavily.

Angelo just sent him a knowing look before turning to Tetsuna. “Ah, Tetsuna, you’re as beautiful as always!”

Tetsuna ducked her head. “Thank you very much, Mr. Angelo.”

Angelo barked a laugh and put his free hand on her shoulder. “Billy has taken quite a liking to you. Won’t you put the poor boy out of his misery and marry him already? I’m sure my grandchildren would be lovely if you were his wife!”

John blinked at the rather sudden turn of events. Tetsuna, however, seemed largely unaffected. “I’m sorry, Mr. Angelo, but I don’t think I’m ready for marriage just yet.”

“That’s what you always say!” Angelo laughed. “If you don’t hurry, Billy will find someone else!”

“I’m sure she’ll manage,” Sherlock interrupted, a smile on his face as he stared out the window.

“That’s true,” Angelo admitted. “She’s so beautiful, she must trail broken hearts behind her! I leave you with the menus and come back for your orders in a bit.” He patted Sherlock and Tetsuna’s shoulders with his meaty hands and waddled over to another table.

A second later, a loud, blond boy with golden eyes had his arms around Tetsuna, practically sitting in her lap as he spoke in rapid Japanese.

Tetsuna sighed. “Kise, please speak in English while you’re in London. You’re being rude.”

“And please remove yourself from Tetsuna, Ryouta,” piped Sherlock.

The boy immediately leapt off Tetsuna, scratching the back of his head in an embarrassed manner. Finally able to get a good look at him, John recognized him as one of Tetsuna’s old teammates. “Sorry, Kurokocchi,” he said in a heavily-accented English. “I just really missed you.”

Tetsuna’s face softened, and one of her tiny hands reached up to pat the boy’s head. “I’ve missed you as well, Kise.”

Two more people entered the restaurant then, both recognizable from Tetsuna’s mobile picture. One was the tall, tanned boy with dark blue hair, and the other a busty girl around Tetsuna’s height with pastel pink hair. As soon as the girl spotted Tetsuna, she launched herself at the table with a speed that rivaled the blond boy’s. The tanned boy followed at a calmer pace, but his excitement was still evident in his eyes.

Once the three newcomers were seated and everyone (except Sherlock) had ordered food, Sherlock nudged Tetsuna with his elbow. “Make the introductions,” he instructed gently.

Tetsuna nodded and sat a little straighter in her chair. “Dr. Watson, these are my old friends Daiki Aomine, Ryouta Kise, and Satsuki Momoi.” As she spoke, she gestured to the tanned boy, the blond boy, and the girl, respectively. “Everyone, this is Dr. John Watson. He’s thinking of moving into the Baker Street flat with us.”

There was an immediate, palpable tension as the last sentence left Tetsuna’s lips. The two Japanese boys seemed to grow, and their eyes flashed dangerously. “Oh, really?” drawled Daiki. “Tell me, Dr. Watson: are you attached?”

“Ah, no,” John answered.

Daiki and Ryouta frowned at each other. “That could be a problem, Dr. Watson,” Ryouta said, sounding concerned.

“Akashi won’t like that at all,” Daiki continued.

Ryouta leaned on his hands, peering at John carefully. “You may want to reconsider your decision to—OW! Momocchi, why did you hit me?” he wailed, clutching his abused head.

Satsuki glared at both Ryouta and Daiki. “Stop it, you two!” She turned to John, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry for how stupid these two are, Dr. Watson. Dai-chan and Kichan are idiots about everything except for basketball.”

Suddenly, John remembered his earlier conversation with Tetsuna as they waited for Sherlock to arrive at Baker Street. “Yes, you and Tetsuna were on the same basketball team in school, right?”

Though all three of the table’s new occupants stiffened at Tetsuna’s name, Ryouta spoke up. “Yeah, we played together in middle school! Kurokocchi and Aominecchi were partners back then!”

“What’re Kurokocchi and Aominecchi?” John asked.

It was Tetsuna who answered. “They’re Kise’s nicknames for Aomine and I. He adds the suffix -cchi to the names of people he respects.”

“But your name is Tetsuna,” said John, confused.

She sighed slightly. “In Japan, it is polite to call others by their family names rather than their given. Only Aomine and Momoi, who were both in my class, and Akashi call me by some variation of my given name.”

John made a humming sound in the back of his throat but made no other response as their food was brought to them.

As Tetsuna and her friends began to chat, John looked at Sherlock, who was looking at a building across the street from their window. “What’s that?” the doctor asked.

“That, John, is twenty-two Northumberland Street.”

“John very nearly choked on the cola he’d been drinking. “Do you think he’s stupid enough to actually come?”

“No,” said Sherlock, “I think he’s brilliant enough to.”

“Excuse me?”

But Sherlock went on, as if John hadn’t spoken. “I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why in the world would a serial killer want to get caught?” John demanded.

“Genius needs an audience.” Just after the last word left his lips, Sherlock’s spine went ramrod straight and his eyes became lit. “A cab just stopped outside twenty-two Northumberland Street. Nobody’s getting in or out.”

“Maybe they just slowed down,” John reasoned.

“One way to find out.” Sherlock suddenly erupted from his seat, startling the restaurant’s other patrons. “Try not to stay out too late, Tetsuna. You have classes in the morning.”

“Okay,” the girl said. “Be careful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave Tetsuna’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before bidding her friends goodbye and running into the street. John barely managed to keep up.

What followed was the most interesting chase John had ever been a part of. He and Sherlock used back streets, alleys, and rooftops to chase the cab in question, and Sherlock proceeded to use his stolen police badge to get inside. To their great dismay (and, quite honestly, a bit to their amusement), the passenger was a Californian who’d just arrive.

They then fled the scene before the real police showed up.

* * *

John and Sherlock collapsed against the wall when they returned to 221B Baker Street, both out of breath and giggling like schoolgirls. “That,” John panted, “was the craziest thing I have ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock bit back, grinning to reveal strikingly white teeth. John was momentarily blinded by how irresistible that smile was—

 _Nonono_ , he chastised himself. _I’m straight! I don’t like men!_ “That—that wasn’t just me,” he finally replied.

Sherlock’s mad grin faded a bit and he straightened his disheveled blazer. “Anyway, he said, voice audibly steadier, “even if we didn’t catch the killer, I got to prove a point.” He then tipped his head back and shouted, “Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson will be moving in!”

“Says who?” John demanded, even though he’d already decided to somewhere on their run back to Baker Street.”

“The man at the door with the cane you left behind to run after me,” Sherlock explained just as the sound of knocking filled the entryway.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want us to walk you home, Kurokocchi?” Kise asked as the four friends left the Italian restaurant.

Tetsuna shook her lead. “It’s only a few blocks away from here, and your hotel is in the opposite direction. If it makes you feel any better, I can take a cab.” Even as she spoke, she hailed one down.

Momoi hugged the other girl tightly. “Bye, Tetsu-chan! Be careful on your way home!”

“I will,” Tetsuna replied, hugging her back. “You shouldn’t worry about me so much. Walking with Sherlock has made me aware of the war in London. I know how to tread carefully. I’ll be fine.”

“See ya later, Tetsu,” said Aomine clamping one of his hands down on her head.

“Okay.” She finished bidding her friends goodbye and climbed into the black cab.

“Where to, luv?” the old cabbie asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Two-two-one Baker Street, please.”

* * *

“It’s a drugs bust.”

Sherlock’s already foul mood worsened as Lestrade’s words were spoken. John, however, found the situation quite humorous. “Are—are you serious?” he laughed. “Sherlock, a junkie? I’m pretty sure you could search the flat all night and not find anything you could call recreational.”

A pained look crossed Sherlocks face and he hissed, “John, I suggest you shut up now.”

John did a double take. “Really? _You?_ ”

“Oh, shut up!” he snarled. He turned back to Lestrade and roared, “I’m clean!”

A cocky smirk fixed itself on Lestrade’s face as his force searched. “But is your flat?”

“I can’t believe you organized a fake drugs bust to break into my flat!”

“It stops being fake if we find something.”

“For God’s sake, I don’t even smoke!” Sherlock growled, unbuttoning and rolling up his right sleeve to display his three nicotine patches.”

“Neither do I,” said Lestrade, rolling his sleeve up to show his own patch. “So let’s work together to catch this sick bastard.”

Sherlock’s mobile beeped in his pocket. Snarling, he pulled it out and read the message.

_Killer has me. Track J. Wilson’s phone.—TK_

All semblance of anger fled Sherlock, replaced by sheer terror. “He..” he choked, almost too quiet to be audible. “He has Tetsuna.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sorry about the ending.


	4. Conversation with a Killer

In the backseat of the killer’s cab, Tetsuna fought to maintain the neutral mask she used throughout her middle and high school days. After he first brought her to London, Sherlock taught her how to act if ever she got kidnapped.

Rule one: Alert Sherlock, if possible.

Rule two: Remain calm.

Rule three: Do not provoke captor.

Rule four: Do not tell captor anything.

Rule five: Protect yourself.

She’d realized she’d been kidnapped when she saw Jennifer Wilson’s pink phone on the front passenger seat. As quietly as possible, she pulled her own mobile from the pocket in her skirt and texted Sherlock before the cabbie could see. I’m okay, she told herself. Sherlock is going to find me. I’m okay.

Before too terribly long, the cab rolled to a stop. There were identical white buildings in front of them, and the sign read Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Following the cabbie’s example, she climbed out. “Why are were here?” she asked, voice steady.

The cabbie, an old man with old, tattered clothes, smirked. “It’s open. Cleaners are in.”

He ushered her into the left building, up several flights of stairs, and into an empty classroom. They both took a seat. “So,” she said, “you’re just going to kill me now?”

“No, my dear,” said the cabbie. “I’m going to talk to you, and then you’re going to kill yourself.”

 

* * *

 

“The fuck do you mean Tetsu got kidnapped?!”

Sherlock held his mobile away from his ear as Aomine began yelling. “Aomine, I need you to calm down. We’re tracking them now, and you’re close to them. Can you, Kise, and Momoi go look for her?”

“Tell me where the fuck she is right now!”

“Thank you. I’ll text you the address.” Sherlock hung up before Aomine could begin yelling again and climbed into the police cruiser with Lestrade and John.”

 

* * *

 

“Fine,” Tetsuna said, trying to summon Sherlock’s arrogance and swagger. “Let’s talk.” Sorry, Sherlock. I’ll be breaking a few rules.

The cabbie leaned over the table. “Tell me abou those Miracle friends of yours. Are you still on good terms?”

“Yes. I just had dinner with some of them, actually.”

“Why?” He sounded genuinely curious. “They threw you away like a broken toy.” The words sent a jolt of shock through Tetsuna’s system. How did he know that? “Especially that Daiki character. He used you to become strong and tossed you aside when it was convenient for him. And he always has that Satsuki girl hanging off him. Doesn’t it make you mad? Don’t you want to get back at them?”

Tetsuna’s tongue felt heavy as she said, “I forgave them a long time ago.”

“Then why didn’t you go back to being Daiki’s shadow?”

Oh, God, she couldn’t breath. How did he know these things? “I—I wanted them to go back to the way they used to be. I wanted them to love basketball again.”

“You’re lying,” the cabbie said matter-of-factly. “Sure, you may believe that’s why you did what you did, but deep down, you wanted to beat them. You knew how much it would hurt them to lose, and you wanted to do it anyway.”

“No! I never wanted to hurt them!”

“Yes you did, luv. You wanted them to know the pain of losing something precious to them. To do that, you became a monster—you trained that Taiga and you high school team to become monsters just like them.”

Tetsuna squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would drown the sounds off. “Stop it!” she cried.

The cabbie smugly reached into his coat and pulled out two bottles, each containing a single, white pill. Before he could speak, however, he and Tetsuna were startled by the sound of footfalls in the hallway outside.

 

* * *

 

The police cruiser had barely stopped when John and Sherlock exploded from it. Satsuki was shaking, clearly hysterical. “Kichan and Dai-chan went into different buildings to look for Tetsu-chan!”

Sherlock put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Thank you for waiting for us. Go wait with Detective Lestrade. Dr. Watson and I will handle this.”

Satsuki nodded, eyes shiny with tears. “Please bring them back!”

“We will.”

 

* * *

 

“So this is Daiki Aomine,” the cabbie said, his gun pointed at the newcomer. “Please, take a seat! Tetsuna and I were just having a conversation about you and your friends.”

“Leave him alone!” Tetsuna shouted. Aomine finally got a good look at her and was startled by the tearstains on her cheeks and her bloodshot eyes.

“Aw, why not? The more the merrier, right, luv?”

Aomine slowly made his way to the chair next to Tetsuna’s. As he sank into the seat, he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Oi!” the cabbie interrupted. “No talking! Now, Tetsuna, you’re a smart girl. I’m sure you know what you have to do.”

Swallowing thickly, Tetsuna said, “One pill is a placebo; the other is laced with arsenic. I take one, you’ll take the other.”

The cabbie smiled gleefully and put the gun back in his coat. “Very good! And even if you pick the bad pill, you’ll still win a little, won’t you? You’ll just go to sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be with your family again.”

Aomine sucked in a harsh breath. but it was Tetsuna who spoke. “Shut up.”

”You’ll never be hurt again,” the cabbie continued. “You’ll be happy all the time.”

“Shut up...”

“You won’t have to watch your best friend drape herself over the man you love.”

“Shut _up_ …”

“You’ll never be a bother to Sherlock again.”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Tetsuna shrieked, covering her ears with her hands and very nearly collapsing in on herself.

The cabbie smirked. “Finally hit a chord, eh? Yes, you know all about all the cases he rejects to spend time with you. You know that he’s completely changed his lifestyle to accommodate you and your little dog. He can’t live freely now, all because of you.”

“You bastard!” growled Aomine, fists clenched.

“Fast as lightning, the cabbie’s gun was drawn. “I told you not to talk!”

Fingers trembling, Tetsuna reached for a bottle.

 

* * *

 

When John finally found Ryôta, the blond was looking through a window, face a painful twist of terror. “Kurokocchi!”

John rushed to the window. Tetsuna, Daiki, and the man John presumed to be the killer were in a room in the opposite building, and Tetsuna was holding a  pill up to her lips.

He didn’t think, his battlefield instincts took over. John drew his pistol from his belt, aimed for the man, and fired.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock ran into the room just as the cabbie fell.

Tetsuna slumped over in relief, dropping the pill onto the linoleum floor of the classroom. Aomine jumped out of his seat to catch her.

Trusting Aomine to take care of her, Sherlock barged over to the cabbie, bleeding profusely from the chest but still alive. “You’re dying, but I can still make it hurt,” he promised, bringing a foot down on the wound. “Tell me this: who sent you after Tetsuna?! _Who told you to try to kill my daughter, you bastard?_ ”

With an anguished cry of “Moriarty!” the cabbie took his last breath.

 

* * *

 

“Two years ago,” Sherlock told John in hushed tones as the paramedics looked Daiki and Tetsuna over for wounds, “I got an e-mail from a girl in Japan. Her parents and grandmother were brutally murdered while she was away at a basketball tournament. I flew to Japan and easily discovered the culprit was an old opponent of her’s out for revenge. The girl—she had no other family. I adopted her and brought her back to England with me.”

“Christ on a bike,” John breathed. “I—I had no idea.”

“There was no way you could have. Today was the anniversary of their deaths, by the way. I’ll bet the cabbie knew that and used it to his advantage.” Then a dangerous look crossed his visage. “At least I have a name now.”

“What?”

“Moriarty.”

 

* * *

 

Tetsuna looked up with bleary eyes as Sherlock and John approached the ambulance. “Let’s go home,” the detective said. extending a hand for her to take.

Her pale face flushed. “I don’t think I can walk,” she admitted.

“I’ll carry you,” offered John immediately. Tetsuna looked a little surprised at first, but she gratefully climbed onto his proffered back and almost instantly fell asleep due to John’s comforting warmth.

Aomine stood then, looking both men in the eye. “Take good care of her, yeah? That bastard said some really fucked up stuff to her.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We will, Aomine. I’m sorry for how things turned out tonight.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t your fault.”

They began to walk towards the street, only for John to stop short when he spotted the man who’d kidnapped him earlier on in the evening. “Sherlock, that’s—”

“I know,” said Sherlock impatiently as he kept walking. When he reached the man, he said, “Hello, Mycroft.”

“Ah, Sherlock,” said the man—Mycroft. “Is Tetsuna alright?”

Sherlock gestured to the sleeping girl on John’s back. “As you can see, she is perfectly safe.”

“Is she? I will still have to tell Mr. Akashi about this, you know. You know how insistent he is.”

Sherlock growled, “I’m pretty sure I know when my daughter’s well-being is balanced. She had a scare tonight, yes, but in a few weeks’ time it will all be just a bad memory.”

Mycroft gave the detective a patronizing frown. “Really, Sherlock, can we just end this childish feud? We just might be on the same side, you know.”

“Funnily enough, I’ve never seen you as my ally.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “You know how this feud upsets Mummy.”

John’s mind blanked as Sherlock began speaking defensively. “Wait,” he said, “who’s Mummy?”

“Mother,” Sherlock bit tersely. “Our mother.”

“You’re brothers?”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock confirmed.

“And this really is a childish feud?”

“Quite,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock scowled. “Try not to start a war before we get home; you know what it does to traffic.” With that, the lanky detective pushed past his older brother. John hurriedly followed after, trying to watch easily so he wouldn’t wake Tetsuna.

 

* * *

 

Nigou met John, Sherlock, ad Tetsuna at the door as they entered 221B, whining softly. “I’m sorry to ask this, considering how tired you must be,” Sherlock said as he removed his coat, “but could you take Tetsuna to her room? It’s just up the stairs.”

“Yeah, of course.” John shifted the girl so she was higher on his back and headed towards the stairs, trying to be careful of Nigou, who was underfoot. She didn’t stir even as John climbed, the old wood creaking with his every step.

Tetsuna’s room was sparsely decorated. The single bed, nightstand, desk, and bookcase were all white wood, a basketball rested in the far corner of the room, and the only picture on her wall featured a younger her with who John presumed to be her parents and grandmother.

John laid tetsuna down on the light blue comforter of her bed, rearranging her limbs to try to make her sleep more comfortable. Nigou hopped up onto the bed and curled up next to his mistress, resting his little head on one of her hands and whining softly.

“Don’t worry, mate,” said John, reaching down to pat the puppy’s head. “She’s gonna be fine.”

 

* * *

When John got back downstairs, Sherlock was sitting in his chairs, hands folded under his chin. “I, uh, put her in bed. Nigou’s up there with her.”

 

Sherlock started a bit before he turned his head to look at him. “Ah yes. Thank you, John.”

And then it was silent but for the sound of their breathing.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was oddly still. John awoke in his new bed, wrapped a robe around himself, and wandered into the living room, where Sherlock was splayed out of the couch. Deciding his stomach took precedence over anything else at the moment, he walked into the kitchen, cleared some of Sherlock’s lab equipment from the counter, and began to make breakfast.

Just as he was serving the eggs, he heard the slap of bare feet on hardwood floor and the panting of a dog. “Good morning, Dr. Watson,” said Tetsuna’s sleepy voice. “That smells really good.”

John smiled to himself and turned around. “Mor—what the hell happened to your hair?”

Tetsuna’s hair, which had been silky and smooth, albeit a bit ruffled, last night when John put her to bed, was sticking up at outrageous angles. The girl blinked sleepily at him and said, “This is how my hair always looks in the morning.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It takes me half an hour each morning to brush it.”

John stared at in in shock for a few more seconds before wordlessly passing a plate of eggs to her. She hummed in the back of her throat, reach around him to grab a mug of tea, and trotted off to the living area to eat.

Before long, Sherlock woke up, his dark curls tidy. He took a sniff, blinked, and turned to John. “Did you cook?”

“Erm, yeah,” John replied, flushing. “I woke up early and decided to make myself useful.”

“Pass me a plate.”

Grinning, John complied.

 

 


	5. The Lion

It was a peaceful midmorning at 221B Baker Street. Dr. John Watson had just popped out to buy groceries; Tetsuna Kuroko was draped on the couch, studying one of her textbooks, while her dog, Nigou, snoozed on her back; Sherlock Holmes was, surprisingly, quietly reading a morning newspaper. It had been a few weeks since their run in with the nefarious cabbie that tried to murder Tetsuna, and it seemed that things were finally starting to calm down.

“You took your time,” Sherlock as John re-entered the flat, having been preceded by his footsteps on the creaky stairs.

“Yeah,” John replied, voice irritated. “I didn’t get the shopping.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I had a row with the chip-n-pin machine.”

Sherlock had the gall to look amused. “You had a row with a machine?”

“Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse at it. D’you have any cash?”

Sherlock nudged Tetsuna with his foot. “Grab my card,” he instructed. “Go with John to make sure he doesn’t get into another row with an inanimate object.”

Tetsuna nodded in spite of John’s protests and marked her page.

As they left the flat, John didn’t even notice the new gouge on the dining room table. Sherlock grinned and kicked his feet back to further hide the machete he’d gotten for his troubles.

 

* * *

 

“So,” John said as the two of them walked to the store. “Are you okay? After, you know, everything that happened with the cabbie?”

Tetsuna nodded. “I’m fine, Dr. Watson. I know that what he was saying was an attempt to rile me up. I should not take it to heart.”

“And who told  you that?”

“Sherlock and Mycroft both.”

John sighed. “You should know by now that they’re not exactly the best people to take advice about human nature from. If you ever need to talk about what that Jeff character said, I’m all ears.”

A moment of silence. Then, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Tetsuna looked at the ground they walked on. “It was like he was in my head. He knew everything I was thinking about. He knew every hurtful thing I’ve ever thought, about myself or others. He knew my insecurities. He knew my secrets. It was terrifying.”

“Well, he can’t get to you now.”

“Thanks to you, yes. Thank you very much, Dr. Watson.”

“You can call me John.”

 

* * *

 

When John and Tetsuna returned to the flat, Sherlock was on John’s laptop. “What’re you doing with my stuff?” the army doctor demanded, dropping his grocery bags on the floor and rushing the detective. “Why not use your own computer?”

“It was in the bedroom,” Sherlock said, as if that were the obvious reason why he’d stolen John’s personal property.

“What, and you couldn’t be bothered to go get it? How did you get into my computer anyway? It’s got a password!”

“Not a difficult one; took me less than a minute to guess it. Not exactly Fort Knox, Doctor.”

“Alright!” John reached over and slapped the laptop shut. He retreated to his armchair and began sifting through the bills that littered the end table next to it. A minute later, as Tetsuna was putting away the groceries and Sherlock had his hands in the thinking position, John groaned. “I need to get a job. We can’t pay the bills.”

“Dull,” was Sherlock’s immediate response. Then, “I need to go to the bank.”

 

* * *

 

John regarded the bank in awe. “When you said we were going to the bank,” he breathed as he, Sherlock, Tetsuna, and, surprisingly, Nigou, had gotten onto the escalator, “I didn’t expect this.”

Sherlock ignored his flatmate and made a beeline for the receptionists. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

A moment later, the four occupants of 221B Baker Street were seated in an expensive office. A man came swaggering in, wearing a suit that had to be triple the price of their flat at least, grinning with a gap between his front teeth. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said almost fondly.

Sherlock stood to shake the man’s hand. “Sebastian,” he returned.

“How are you, buddy?” Sebastian asked, trying for a hug that the detective allowed, stiffly. “How long’s it been, eight years?”

“Sebastian, this is my adoptive daughter, Tetsuna Kuroko,” Tetsuna bowed politely at the introduction, “and my friend, John Watson.”

“Daughter? Friend?” asked Sebastian, almost in disbelief.

John’s hackles rose. “Colleague,” he spat.

Ignoring Sherlock’s slightly hurt look, Sebastian clamped John’s hand in his own with the same enthusiasm he’d had with Sherlock. “Well, it’s good to meet you both. Need anything? Coffee, water?” he asked as he sat in the leather chair on the other side of the desk from which they sat.

“No, thanks,” Sherlock replied curtly. “So you’re doing well. Been around the world two times this month.”

Sebastian laughed, a breathy sound that made John cringe. “Right. You’re doing that thing.” He looked at John and Tetsuna then. “We were at uni together, and this guy here had a trick he used to do. He would look at you and tell you your whole life’s story. We all hated him.”

John could see Tetsuna visibly stiffen, and the sudden pressure in her petting of Nigou made him whine.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like him,” Tetsuna said to John while Sebastian went over the details of the previous night’s break in with Sherlock.

John nodded in agreement. “I was trying to be polite, yeah? I kept telling myself, Don’t punch his face in.”

“You should’ve.”

“I’d’ve been arrested, Tetsuna.”

She regarded him with a curious look. “I have a friend that could have gotten you out of jail easily.”

“Does Mycroft count as a friend?”

“Not him, John. Seijuro Akashi. He e-mailed me last night to tell me that he was going to be in London on business for a while and he invited me to lunch.”

John vaguely remembered that name. “Your friends from Angelo’s seemed afraid of him.”

“He is absolute.”

* * *

 

The trip to Van Coon’s apartment was mostly silent, save for Tetsuna’s quiet humming as she ran her fingers through Nigou’s thick fur.

While John and Tetsuna spoke, Sherlock made leaps and bounds on the break in. The yellow graffiti was a message meant for the Hong Kong trader, a man named Van Coon. Even before he’d made the deductions, Sebastian handed John a check with so many zeroes the veteran had felt light headed. If they could solve this case, they’d be set for months.

As the cab rolled to a stop, Sherlock bound out of it, followed in short order by his three flatmates (because, yes, Nigou was a flatmate in his own right. Who else would give warning barks in the dark when John almost ran into doorframes and eat the food Sherlock burnt in his sporadic attempts to cook?). He rang the buzzer impatiently, and quite nearly growled when he received no response. He then rang for the floor above, made up a story about having just moved in to get buzzed up, and was quickly granted access.

A story-tall jump and a little investigation later, Sherlock unlocked the flat door from the inside for John, Tetsuna, and Nigou and called for the NSY.

Of course, Sherlock then got into a row with the unfamiliar detective, a young bloke named Dimmock, who was in charge while Lestrade was busy on another case. Dimmock was clearly on the Donovan-Anderson side of the liking-Sherlock spectrum. The two argued about whether or not Van Coon had committed suicide (not, claimed Sherlock, and yes, said Dimmock).

When they were done at Van Coon’s flat and had delivered the news to Sebastian (who seemed disgustingly unfazed, in John’s mind), the group returned to the flat.

Waiting on the sidewalk for them was a young man with scarlet hair John recognized from Tetsuna’s photo. He was older, yes; his face more angular, a tad taller. Tetsuna froze up slightly as she caught sight of him.

“Testuna,” he greeted in English, sounding as smooth as any native speaker, “it’s been a while.”

“Yes, Akashi,” Tetsuna replied.

“I texted you several times earlier.”

“I left my phone here. John, Sherlock, Nigou, and I went out.”

John cleared his throat. “Uh, Tetsuna, who’s this?”

Tetsuna tore her gaze away from the man’s, and John finally noticed his eyes. One was red, and the other was yellow. “John, this is Seijuro Akashi. Akashi, this is Dr. John Watson, our new flatmate.”

Seijuro glanced at John, and the veteran felt like no more than a small canary caught in the gaze of a lion. There were few people who could make John feel so inferior, and he didn’t like it at all. Then, his gaze moved to Sherlock. “Ah, Sherlock. It’s been a while.”

Sherlock nodded dismissively. “Yes, I suppose it has. You’d like to come up for a cuppa, I’m sure.”

“If I will not intrude.”

“Of course not, Akashi,” Tetsuna said, sounding, to John, much more demure and submissive than usual. “It would be our pleasure.”

Another thing about this Seijuro John didn’t like: he swaggered about the flat like he owned it. “Where do you sleep, John?” he asked as he lounged on the couch, waiting for Tetsuna to prepare tea in the kitchen. Sherlock was talking quietly on the phone, and Nigou had remained at Tetsuna’s heels (the smart bastard).

“Ah, in the downstairs bedroom. Sherlock said he preferred sleeping in tight spaces anyway, so he takes the couch.”

“And what is it you do for a living?”

“I’m not employed, currently. I was recently invalidated from the military.”

“Then how do you pay your part of the rent? I assume you don’t make Sherlock and Tetsuna do all the work.”

John bristled. “I’m looking for a job. They’re just not easy to come by these days.”

Akashi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and a dangerous glint in his eye. “How hard can it be for a surgeon to find a job, John?”

John was saved from answering by Tetsuna’s arrival, holding a tray with several mugs of tea. “I hope you like it, Akashi,” she said in that cowed voice John was starting to hate. “John and I just went shopping this morning, so the tea should be fresh.”

“Ah, thank you, Tetsuna.” He took a mug, smiling in a way that should have been charming but came off as predatory. “If you made it, I’m sure it will suit me perfectly.”

“Thank you for your praise, Akashi.”

The ensuing conversation set John terribly on edge. This boy was only Tetsuna’s age, right? How could he be so dangerous? He felt like Mycroft, like one wrong move would push him too far and make him snap. He tried not to listen too much, but Seijuro’s voice pulled him in.

“How are your classes going, Tetsuna?”

“Fine, Akashi. I am only having trouble in part of the general maths. I am confident I will bring my grade up before the end of the semester.”

“I can arrange some private tutors if you want. I would hate for you to fall behind on your education. After all, as a member of the Generation of Miracles, it would bring shame on the rest of us.”

The way he said that made John’s skin crawl. It was just....off, somehow. Luckily, before Tetsuna had to answer, Seijuro’s phone buzzed from his pocket. The young man pulled it out and answered. “Kore wa Akashidesu. Hai. Hai. Anata wa sore ga, kare ga itta kotoda to kakushin shite imasu ka? Sate sate, watashi wa tsugi no ben ni norudarou. Ko no tame no hankyō ga arudeshou. Watashi wa ima, hangu appu shite i. Sayōnara.” He violently jabbed the end button, sighed, and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “That was one of my managers. I’m afraid something’s come up; I have to return to Japan immediately.”

John couldn’t say he was sorry to see him go.

After making a few more pleasantries and promising to visit again, Seijuro took his leave. As soon as he was gone, John slumped forward in his chair like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. “That was rather intense.”

Tetsuna was silent as she gathered up the tea mugs.

* * *

 

“So,” said John that night, long after Tetsuna retreated to her room, “why is Seijuro so intense?”

Sherlock, who had been looking over the crime scene photos, sighed. “It’s a long story, John.”

“I don’t have much else to do in the meantime.”

A pause. Then, “Seijuro was raised from a young age to believe that winning was everything. To his father, if he lost, he was worthless. So he worked and worked and worked until he was the smartest and the strongest and the fastest. He was an emperor in a sea of peasants.

“He met Tetsuna and the rest of their friends in middle school. Their school was very elite; only the best went there. It didn’t matter what they were good at, as long as they were excellent. The six of them were the regulars of their basketball team. Tetsuna has never been very physical, so her specialty was passing. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, people tend to overlook her. She used that to her advantage when she played basketball.

“Anyway, she developed this skill with Seijuro’s help. Their team became the strongest. However, the members of the team became too strong for their own good. No one could even come close to beating them. When it came time for them to go to high school, they parted ways to see whose team would beat the others.

“Tetsuna went to a no name school and trained them to beat the Generation of Miracles. When she beat Seijuro, something inside him broke. He seems to revere Tetsuna as a goddess now. It’s very unhealthy for his psyche. Tetsuna goes along with it to keep him from snapping.

“He’s almost as sociopathic as I am.”

John exhaled. “Wow.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone be interested in me starting a YouTube channel? I mean, It wouldn't be anything major. Just vlogs or updates on story progress. Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Also, make sure to visit me at littlemisswolfie.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> This is, like, 10 pages in Google Drive. Not even kidding.


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